An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (5 page)

His
expression darkened, turning stormy as a thundercloud. “It would spoil the
moment to learn anything about me? A man who kissed you?”

Too
late. The magical spell shattered. “It doesn’t matter who you are, or who I am.
This was wrong, and we should not have done this.”

Stefano’s
shoulders stiffened. “I must get you home.”

“Yes.”

On
the shaded porch she fussed with pinning her hat back in place as Stefano
locked the doors. She didn’t want to leave this place. Didn’t want to leave
him
.

Not
this way, with this new tension in the air that was so different from the
delightful other kind of tension. But she had no idea what to say or do to
change it, and no time to puzzle it out.

She
had to get back to the villa. Soon the rest of the household would wonder where
she’d gone.

They
strolled back the way they’d come, arms swinging at their sides, close enough
almost to touch, but it was now as though there was a vast gulf between them.
As though Stefano had pulled away and left her. Tears pricked the backs of her
eyes. She’d never been so miserable.

Did
every kiss end in this desolate feeling? She didn’t think so. She hoped not.

As
they walked in silence, her desolation turned to anger.

?
Should she have allowed him to speak, to tell her about himself? No matter what
he said, surely he had to know that the moment they faced the reality of their
situation, the dream was over. Surely he couldn’t have contemplated taking this
any further than one wild kiss?

It
was better this way, better to have the fantasy. Better not to know.

Too
soon, they were back at the gap in the low wall where the path stretched up the
hill to the villa where sanity and reality both awaited her.

He
helped her up the slope, then leaned his hip against the wall to look at her,
arms crossed over his broad chest; that hard, muscled chest that she could
still imagine beneath her fingertips. His eyes were dark, inscrutable.

This
was not how she wanted to end it.

He
had opened her eyes to a part of herself she had never seen before; a part of
her that hungered for things she hadn’t even known existed. He had shown her
the person she could be, the passion that could be hers, if she were only brave
enough. She took a deep breath, swallowing the urgency of her need for him.

“Goodbye,
Stefano.”

It
was the first time she had said his name out loud. It seemed to flow off her
tongue, as though the sound belonged there. She clamped down on the sudden pain
that spiked through her.

He
took her hand, lifted her fingers to his mouth and brushed a kiss across the
palm of her hand. She shuddered as his breath caressed the exposed skin, a kiss
as soft as a whisper. She registered the flare in his eyes as he dropped her
hand. She was not alone in feeling this spark between them.

“
Ciao
,
Bella.”

Isobel
walked slowly back to the villa, using the time to get her whirling emotions
back under control; to clear the wild sobs that threatened to choke her.

She
had never said goodbye before now and meant it as an ending.

She
veered from ecstasy to despair as quickly as the feathery clouds that skittered
across the sky. From the moment she’d arrived in Italy, her emotions had been
as wild as a Brighton merry-go-round, as out of control and dizzying. She could
only imagine that these wild mood swings were caused by the cloying heat. Maybe
this was why the Italians seemed so volatile compared to the staid English.

Whatever
the reason, and in spite of the constricting pain in her chest, she’d rather
experience every emotion than allow her heart to wither away untouched.

She
thought of the sketch she’d done of Frances and her lover, a sketch she had
carefully torn into a thousand pieces.

Yes,
she’d rather feel the pain and know she was alive. She’d rather be able to
capture those emotions in her art, than never live to her full potential.

She
paused at the edge of the formal terraced gardens and looked out over the
impossibly blue sea. The air in Italy smelled so different from England, so
fertile and fragrant. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the rich, clean smell,
the tang of citrus and the salty sea. She wished she could bottle it and take
it home with her, to keep the memories alive while she endured the upcoming Season.

Into
the distance, sunlight glinted silver on the sea, the sight so beautiful it
robbed her of breath. Both sea and sky were vast and eternal, making her
problems seem slight in comparison.

With
a new-found calm, she re-lived those last terrible moments when Stefano’s face
had hardened against her. And now she saw herself as he must have seen her.

Her
conduct had been so wanton, so careless, that she had kissed a man and not even
wanted to know his name. If it had been the other way around, and he had kissed
her and not cared who she was, would she not have been hurt too?

Hope
blossomed in her chest. He had been cross with her because he cared.

His
interest in her had not been merely because he thought her easy; his interest
was because he liked her. He wanted to know her; for her to know him.

And
she had ruined it.

Stefano
had said that anything was possible if you only wanted it enough. With all her
heart, she wished for a chance to make it right.

The
summer wasn’t over yet. Perhaps Stefano would be at the Festival. Perhaps, if
she wanted it enough, she could have the chance to say a different goodbye.

She
turned her back to the sea, and climbed the stairs to the uppermost terrace of
the villa, where the servants were laying out brunch under the watchful eye of
the stiff-backed English butler the Harringtons had brought with them from
London.

“Where
have you been?” Christopher asked, looking up from behind his newspaper. He sat
alone at the table. In spite of the heat, and the unattractive flush creeping
up his pale, elegant face, he wore both a blazer and a tie. The sight of him
brought a smile to her lips. Christopher was nothing if not conventional.

“I
went out for a walk in the olive groves. It’s such a lovely morning.” She sank
into a chair across the table from him and gratefully accepted the tea the
butler offered.

“Alone?”
His voice was sharp. The heat had clearly robbed him of his sense of humour.

“Of
course. I hardly need a chaperone to walk in the olive groves. Isn’t that true,
Edwards?”

The
butler bowed. “Certainly, ma’am. The privacy of these grounds is inviolate.”

Christopher’s
lips thinned. She wasn’t entirely sure whether it was because she had included
a servant in their conversation, or whether he simply disapproved of her
venturing out alone. His mouth thinned more as she unpinned her hat, allowing
her hair to tumble loose about her shoulders. Irritation flared as she took in
his pinched look. What did it matter whether she wore her hair free or dressed
it up? Did these small strictures really matter in the bigger scheme of things?
Decorum was so much more than a way of dressing hair. Manners and morals came
from the heart, after all, not from outside observances.

But
mercifully Christopher said nothing, and she was saved the necessity of keeping
up a polite conversation by the arrival of Tom and his vivacious wife.

“You
should wear your hair down more often,” Tom commented reaching out to twist one
of her fair curls between his fingers as he passed. “It suits you.”

She
didn’t think Christopher’s lips could press any harder.

It
wasn’t long before the breakfast table was a throng of people, the servants
hovering with fragrant dishes. The noise and activity drowned out her
irritation.

She’d
built up a healthy appetite after her long walk, and eating outdoors, with the
view over the impossibly blue sea, only seemed to make the food taste even
better. It was almost enough to help her forget the pleasure and pain of her
morning expedition. Almost, but not quite. She felt different than she had a
few hours ago, when she’d slipped quietly out of bed.

She
had tasted her first kiss, and it had been magical and beautiful and life
altering.

She
touched her finger to her lips.

Only
after the servants had cleared away the breakfast dishes, as they lingered over
their tea, did she notice that Frances seemed a shadow of her usual self. Her
vivacity seemed forced and she picked at her food, eating nothing more than dry
toast and black tea.

While
the Baron regaled the table with another of his lengthy tales, Isobel slipped
into the seat beside Frances and reached for her cousin’s hand beneath the
cover of the table. “Are you ill?”

Her
cousin’s eyes seemed to stand out wide and over-bright in her pale face, but
Frances shook her head. “It’s just the heat.”

But
it wasn’t. Isobel was sure of that. She gave Frances’s fingers a small squeeze
before releasing her hand.

“It’s
a great honour to us, of course,” her aunt said, turning to Isobel with an
expectant smile.

She
flushed, wondering what she’d missed.

On
her other side, Adam leaned close, mischief dancing in his gaze. He knew she
wasn’t paying any attention to their chatter. “Our landlord is notoriously
elusive,” he explained. “He doesn’t socialise much, and has pretty much left us
alone the previous years we’ve stayed here, but Mother’s been trying to acquire
his patronage all summer and he has finally accepted an invitation to dinner.
It seems the presence of not one, but two, eligible young ladies at the Villa
del Monte has finally caught his attention.”

“Don’t
talk nonsense, Adam.” But his mother blushed. “It is only polite that we show
our gratitude to the Conte di Cilento.”

“Only
because he owns half the province.” Adam’s voice dropped low, his next words
only for Isobel. “And he’s a bachelor.”

“When
will he be here?” She forced the words out of a throat suddenly dry.

“Wednesday.
The night after the
Ferragosto
re-enactment.”

She
shivered in an unseen breeze. What would the descendant of that long gone
heathen Conte be like? Would he be old and staid and dull like most people of
noble birth, or would he be as fascinating as his ancestor?

Though
it was not yet sunset, and the air was still bright with the evening sun, multi-coloured
lanterns lit the Piazza. The laundry that had hung across the streets and
alleys the last time she’d been here was cleared away, and in their place hung
colourful flags and banners. On one side of the piazza a band of musicians in
traditional costumes played a lively tune.

There
were people everywhere, laughing, talking, dancing. More people than Isobel had
expected. They must have come from far and wide for tonight’s festivities.

A
surge of anticipation swept through her as she crossed the piazza and headed
towards the seafront, where yet more lanterns decorated the promenade. The
sultry air felt alive with possibility and excitement, and Isobel was ready for
adventure.

“Let’s
start with a drink.” Tom led them through the milling crowd towards the
taverna. Even though the place was packed, with tables spilling out onto the
pavement, a flash of bank notes guaranteed them the best table in the house: on
the honeysuckle-bedecked verandah, with a view over the beach.

“There
is one experience Izzy cannot leave here without.” Frances’ breathless voice
reminded Isobel of the clandestine moment she’d spied upon. The image of
entwined naked bodies flitted through her head. Though of course Frances
couldn’t have meant
that
.

 “I
think we should introduce her to the delights of
limoncello
.” Frances
winked at Isobel, and she was certain her cousin suspected her thoughts. Heat
suffused her face.

The
owner himself waited on them, pouring the icy liqueur into their glasses. As he
deposited the bottle on their table he cast a swift, complicit smile at Isobel.
She blushed again.

“To
having fun,” Frances toasted, and the others raised their glasses.

Isobel
savoured the cool, rich liquid, hoping they believed it was her first taste.
There was no way she was going to tell them a handsome stranger had beaten them
to it. A stranger who awakened in her more than a taste for liqueur.

Frances
was even more restless than usual. “I want to dance.” She rose. “Tom, will you
be a gentleman and dance with me?”

He
led her down the steps to the paved piazza where a number of couples already
danced. Isobel was not surprised when Adam took the opportunity to invite Beatrice
to dance. Or that they left her alone without a backward glance.

She
didn’t mind. She sipped the
limoncello,
tasting once again the sunlight
and spirit of Italy in liquid form. Her foot tapped beneath the table as she
watched the twirling couples.

Amidst
the squalor and poverty she’d glimpsed, the Italians still managed to find the
joy in life. Festive music and laughter flowed around her, so unlike anything
she had experienced before that she was perfectly happy to do nothing more than
sit and soak it in.

Compared
to the English, the Italians expressed every emotion. The artist in her itched
to sketch the faces that swirled around her, to capture every shade and nuance
of their animated expressions. The other part, the newly awakened side of her,
wanted to join them, to be one of them and share their exuberance. She didn’t
want to hide from her emotions as she had been taught, but to express them.

But
what she wanted, and what she was able to do, were still worlds apart.

“You
have acquired a taste for
limoncello
I see.” The deep, warm voice sent a
delicious tingle of pleasure down her spine. She turned in her seat to look up
at Stefano, smiling at the sense of déjà-vu.

The
first thing she noticed was that his eyes had lost the hardness she’d last seen
in them. It was more than she’d hoped for.

The
next thing she noticed was how rugged, how darkly dangerous, he looked tonight.
He was dressed all in black, in a rough fabric she did not recognise, and he
hadn’t shaved. The stubble made him look like an adventurer – or a pirate.

“Yes,
thank you.” She hated that her voice sounded so formal, so polite. So English.
She had imagined this moment in intense detail and now that it was here, her
mouth was dry and she could think of nothing to say.

“You
are not dancing?”

She
shook her head. “I don’t mind.” Even more now that it allowed her the chance to
set things right between them. Her heart fluttered shamelessly.

“May
I join you for a moment?”

She
cast a glance to the open space before the taverna. Her companions were too
engaged in themselves to pay her any attention. “Please.” She gestured to the
empty chair beside her.

His
glance followed hers. “They are fools to leave such a beauty as you
unchaperoned.” He sat, pulling his chair closer so that she caught the trace of
his scent, an earthy, masculine fragrance that suggested lemons and the sea,
and everything else that was Italy.

“I’m
not the beauty. My cousin Frances is.”

He
picked Frances out of the crowd with ease, and shrugged. “The simple frescoes
of the medieval masters are very different from the elaborate Baroque
ornamentations of the
duomo
in Amalfi. But both are beautiful.”

This
time she at least tried to fight the threatening blush.

“I
am glad you are here tonight. I wanted to see you again.”

“I
wanted to see you again too.” Spoken out loud the words sounded wistful. She
lifted her chin. She would not let him see her as the awkward schoolgirl she
still felt herself to be.

He
leaned across her to reach for the
limoncello
, topping up her glass then
pouring a splash for himself. He handed her a glass and she took it, fighting
back the wave of desire that crashed over her as his fingers grazed hers. She
knew now how quickly her desires could spiral out of control. Which was no
doubt why her whole life before now had been one long lesson in subduing the
wildness.

“
Saluté
.”
He raised his glass, cheeks dimpling as he smiled, and her breath caught. When
he smiled it was as though there was no-one else on earth but the two of them.

She
swallowed a mouthful and the liquid fire slid down her throat, smooth and
golden. It leant her courage. “I’m sorry for what I said in the chapel the other
day. It’s not that I don’t want to know more about you. I do. It’s rather
that…what happened between us shouldn’t have happened.”

“Are
you sorry I kissed you?”

His
eyes, so darkly perceptive, glittered. As though he saw her deepest desires and
understood them. She couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at her mouth as she
shook her head. “Nor am I sorry I kissed you back. But it’s not that simple.”

Stefano
took her hand where it lay on the table. “Yes, it is that simple.”

He
leaned closer, his intensity radiating through their joined hands. “This is a
new world we live in, a world in which anything is possible. The old rules no
longer apply. You can be, and do, anything you want.”

She
pulled her hand away. “I don’t know yet what I want. And even if I did, I don’t
know that I’m brave enough to go after it.”

Something
sparked in his eyes. “You are brave enough.”

He
reached again for her hand, brushing the sensitive pulse at her wrist with his
rough fingers. This time she did not pull away. “Look again at those sketches
you showed me at Montepertuso. Maybe in them you will find the woman I see when
I look at you.”

He
gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and released her hand. “I must go.” He downed
the last of his
limoncello
.

“
Ciao
,
Isabella.” With a last dimpling smile, he rose and disappeared swiftly into the
crowd.

She
gazed after him for a long while, her heart thudding against her ribcage.
Though she would never see him again, she felt lighter than she had in days.
This was a better farewell, perhaps more than she deserved.

She
was no longer content to sit on the sidelines and watch. Stefano’s magic touch
had sparked the flame within her. Her feet itched to join in the dancing and
merriment.

Her
changed mood must have been apparent to her companions, for on their return to
the table, Adam invited her to dance. But as they joined the impromptu dance on
the piazza, a commotion before the church brought the music to a halt. Raised
voices carried through the air, and though she could not understand the words,
the highly-charged emotions were clear.

Isobel
craned her neck for a better view. On the steps of the church a lone man stood
above the crowd to speak. His ringing voice had been submerged and generally
ignored in the disordered merriment, until a gang of black-shirted men began to
heckle him. As the music died around them, all heads turned to the fracas, and
the crowd stilled.

She
shivered at the anger in the men’s voices, frozen into inaction, but when the
hecklers surrounded the speaker and pulled him to the ground, she cried out in
shock.

She
wasn’t alone. The crowd roared, anger catching fire. A mass of bodies surged
forward and involuntarily, Isobel followed.

But
Adam held her back, his arms tight bands across her chest.

“Don’t
get involved, Izzy,” he warned. “It’s not our concern.”

Over
his shoulder, she watched, helpless, stirred to anger herself as the black
shirted men kicked at their fallen victim, pummelling him with their heavy
boots and their fists, until he lay unmoving, blood spattered across his face
and his shirt. The crowd yelled abuse, but no-one stepped forward to end the
senseless violence, too scared to take on the hecklers. The crowd that moments
ago had been united in joy, was now united in fear and fury.

The
black-shirted men moved away, carving a path through the crowd as people
hastily stepped aside for them.

Slowly
the crowd began to drift apart. She and Adam stood in the centre of the piazza
and watched as a group of men carried the beaten, unconscious speaker’s body
away.

Isobel
turned her back to them, sickened by the sight of the blood spattered on the
church steps. “But
why
?”

“Those
are the
squadristi
. They don’t need a why, they’re bully boys. The first
summer we came to Italy, they were idealists who wanted to restore order after
the chaos of the war.” As he spoke, Adam led her away, gently turning her
towards the taverna where the others waited. His cool, matter-of-fact voice
calmed her. “But they’ve grown powerful, and now all they do is intimidate
anyone who opposes the fascists.”

“But
who was that poor man?”

Adam
shrugged, not particularly interested. “A socialist. Their lot are not much
better than the
fascisti
.”

“He
should still be free to have his say,” Isobel protested. She thought of the
hungry-eyed beggars of Naples and the barefoot children of Montepertuso. They
had so little, no choice, no control over their own destinies. Was it too much
to ask that they at least be free to voice their opinions?

They
reached the taverna, and she pulled away from her cousin, composing herself.
She would not let the others see her weak and afraid. Or angry.

“What’s
going on over there?” Frances asked. She stood on the edge of the taverna’s
verandah, craning in the direction of the church.

“Nothing
you want to see,” her brother reprimanded, his voice sharp. “Christopher was
right. We shouldn’t have brought you girls here. This is Italy, after all.” He
directed a speaking look at Tom over his sister’s head.

But
Isobel wasn’t having any of that. No matter what she’d witnessed, she wasn’t
prepared to tuck tail and run. “No,” she said, her voice firm and clear.

She
spoke up so seldom that the others all turned to her in surprise.

“I
won’t let a handful of bullies spoil our fun. We’re safe enough here, so let’s
drink and wait for the re-enactment.”

Tom
grinned. “That’s the spirit!” He gestured for the landlord. “
Vino
,
per
favore
.”